And as she came to hate with a fierce hatred the Princess whom Dalberg
loved, so with an even more bitter hatred she hated Mrs. Clephane who
had won Harleston from her. For while with Dalberg she never had the
slightest chance, and knew it perfectly, with Harleston there was the
bitterness of blasted hopes as well as of defeat.
And Harleston, sitting there beside her, the perfume of her hair and
garments heavy about him, read much that was in her thoughts; and some
remorse smote him--a little of remorse, that is--and he would have said
something in mitigation of her judgment. But a look at her--and the
excuse was put aside and the subject ended before it was even begun.
She was not one to accept excuses or to be proffered them, it were best
to let the matter rest. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clephane must be warned of the
danger confronting her.
He glanced again at her--and met her subtle smile.
"This Mrs. Clephane," she remarked with quiet derision, "wherein is she
different from the rest of us?"
"By 'us' you mean whom?" he asked.
"The women you have known."
"And seen?"
"And seen."
"You're exceedingly catholic!" he smiled.
"You're exceedingly exclusive--and precipitate; and you haven't answered
my question.
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